


Live Twice With Satisfaction

by avauntfox



Category: Merlin (TV), The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Friendship, Gen, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avauntfox/pseuds/avauntfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis was meant to be a Musketeer. Every decision, every mistake had lead him here, to Paris, where he lived and fought beside the three of the finest men. But when mysterious symbols begin to crop up, Aramis will be forced to confront a past long thought buried and have to decide how far he's willing go to keep his secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live Twice With Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after episode 5 - The Homecoming. 
> 
> Will be a crossover with BBC Merlin, but that won't really come up until later. 
> 
> Please read and review. I encourage any and all critical feedback. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The tavern was bustling with activity, as beer and spirits flowed freely throughout the room. Loud barks of laughter could be heard as men joked with their comrades and beautiful wenches flitted from table to table, smiling coyly as they served more drinks to their patrons. In the flickering light of the various lanterns, four man sat in the corner, watching the festivities in amusement. 

  
“You’d think it was Christmas Day.” One man remarked, a mug of beer in his own hand. Darker skinned then the rest of his comrades, he had short black hair and a scar above his brow. He was a man who was comfortable in own skin, and look at home among the rough and tumbled crowd. The man eyed a nearby game of cards with growing interest.

  
“Oh Porthos, let them have their fun." The man beside him chided, his eyes wrinkling softly and taking a swig from his own bottle “I believe we can all learn a valuable lesson about life from these men.” He glanced up and winked at a passing waitress, his eyes roving appreciatively over her supple form. He was a strikingly handsome man, with a sharp jaw and silky brown hair, and by the glance he received back, he knew it.

  
The third man at the table was dressed like the other two in high quality leather, and his rapier strapped to his waist. He had a quiet, solemn air about him; a vibe that gave him a certain gravitas. Even from afar, people instinctively knew he was a commander of men. There were several more empty bottles scattered around him, and his eyes were slightly glazed as he stared stoically into the nearby cracking fire.  

  
At his companions words however he tore his gaze away and looked up with a small smirk. “And what lesson would that be Aramis?” 

  
Aramis gave a delighted grin, always pleased when his friend managed to drag his mind back from wherever it had strayed. Aramis constantly worried that one day he would be forced to watch, helpless, as Athos’s mind would wander too far and become lost in the in the dark corners of days gone by; the one area where Aramis could not reach. But that day was not today, and Aramis smiled in good fortune.  

  
“Why, that everyday should be a celebration of course!” He answered. “D’Artagnan agrees with me! Don’t you?” He glanced sideways to the fourth, and final, man at the table.  

  
D’Artagnan gave an amused snort. The youngest at the table; he was still clean shaven and graced with youthful good looks. Though still a recruit, a musketeer in training, it mattered little to his three comrades. D’Artagnan had already proven his strength of character and his deftness with a blade, and was an accepted member of the group.

  
He shook his head. “I believe that’s one lesson you have already learned my friend. Perhaps a little too well.” 

  
“Ain’t that the truth.” Porthos barked in laughter as Athos grinned. 

  
Aramis shrugged unapologetically. “I find no fault in worshiping all forms of beauty.” He glanced around the table. “But come, we should be joining our fellow man in celebration, after all.” He looked at Porthos. “Today we saved our brother-in-arms from an unjust fate. If that does not call for a little bit of merriment, what does?” 

  
“I’ll drink to that.” Porthos agreed, raising his glass to his comrades in silent thanks. 

  
“To Porthos! May he always be free to cheat badly, drink excessively, fight furiously and guard our backs until the end of days!” Aramis cheered, taking a large gulp of spirits and slapping his friend hard on the back. 

  
Athos raised his own bottle solemnly. “To Porthos.” 

  
Porthos grinned widely at his brothers, his teeth white against the tanned tone of his skin. “I wasn’t worried” he lied. Athos shot him a look, clearly seeing past his bravo, but said nothing. Sometimes it was the lies one told themselves that got a person through the day. 

  
“Though the funeral would have been lovely.” Aramis mused, stroking his moustache to try and hide his growing grin. Porthos growled and punched his friend hard in the shoulder. Aramis yelped and grabbed his arm dramatically, sparking another round of chuckles. 

  
“So how did it feel to be a wanted man?” D’Artagnan asked with a grin. “First it was Athos, then it was me and then you. I wonder if Aramis is to be next.” 

  
Aramis laughed. “Do not jinx me.” 

  
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll run afoul of some husband soon enough.” Drawled Athos. 

  
“Probably” Aramis agreed with a self deprecating shrug. 

  
“And what about you Aramis?” D’Artagnan asked, once the snickering had died down. 

  
“Was there a question in there?” Aramis inquired in confusion, unsure what his young friend was referring too.  

  
“Well, I know where Athos is from, and now where Porthos grew up.” D’Artagnan listed. “And you all know I was raised on a farm in Gascony. But all I knowabout you is your talent with a musket, your skill at suturing and your love of women.”

  
Porthos and Athos looked at Aramis in interest, for they too were unaware of Aramis background. For all of Aramis popularity at the regiment and the gaming halls around town, not much was known about the talented and loyal musketeer. He had been a musketeer the longest out of the three, having joined when the regiment was first created, but anything before that was a still mystery.  

  
It had never bothered the two musketeers. Athos would not dig into the past of others; not when he had a past of his own that he wished to remain buried. Porthos, on the other hand, was a more emotionally simple man. He always was of mind that a man’s past did not define him, and was simply content on living in the present. And though they might not be aware of Aramis’s family name, or details about his boyhood, they were comforted by the fact that they knew what was important. They knew Aramis valued friendship above all else, that he would fearlessly risk his life for his duty and that he was blessed, or cursed, with a romantic soul.

  
But that did not mean that they were not curious. 

  
Aramis gaze grew solemn as he studied his bottle of wine and pondered his young friend’s innocent question. His past was a secret that he guarded carefully, for he knew that many of the details were too fanciful to be believed. In truth, if he had not lived it himself, he would have thought his story stemmed from a mad man.

  
It was those fears, the accusations of insanity, that had always stayed his tongue. Besides, being here, working as a musketeer and brother-in-arms with these fine men, was his life now. The past had no place haunting the present. Aramis had long ago decided not to dwell on what he could not change.  

  
But, as Aramis looked up and found his three friends watching him in both interest and concern, he could not deny that if any men deserved and could be trusted with his secret, it was these three at this table. Perhaps providing some details, a mere outline, would not be an error. After all, he would hate for these admirable men to be of opinion that he did not trust them. For he trusted few others as he did these men, and held them in the highest regard.   

  
D’Artagnan fidgeted as a melancholy quietness befell Aramis. “I did not mean to offend…” He offered hesitantly, suddenly aware his innocent question had garnered an unexpected reaction. 

  
Aramis raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Do not worry yourself my friend. You did not offend.” He grinned into his mug. “I am not that thin skinned. Besides, it is a fair question. After all, look at all the trouble Porthos just got us into.” 

  
Porthos growled, and reached across to swat Aramis’s head. “Oi. Enough of that, re ya going to answer the question or not?” 

  
Aramis laughed, “You really must stop hitting me. I’m going to start to think you don’t like me.” 

  
“I thought you liked violence?” grinned Porthos wickedly. 

  
“In women!” Aramis returned indigently.  

  
“You're stalling.” Athos quietly pointed out. 

  
That comment swiftly sobered Aramis, leaving him with a dark feeling in his chest. “Peace, I am just ordering my thoughts.” Unconsciously, all three leaned in and Aramis sighed. “I warn you, it is not very exciting.” 

  
“Let us decide that.” Porthos stated softly. 

  
Aramis shrugged. “I warned you.” He took a breath and after a moment started. “My father was a blacksmith, from a village so small it had no proper name. He was talented, a master at his craft. Anything that entered his forge, remerged a work of art. I remember people used to travel far and wide to commission his work. He would have been more successful in a bigger town, but my mother refused to leave her home and he loved her absolutely.” Aramis grinned. “He would deny it, putting up a stern face, but deep down he was a hopeless romantic.” 

  
Porthos snorted. “You say that like you're not one as well.” 

  
Aramis raised his eyebrows. “I do not deny that I can, at times, be sentimental.” He grinned and lifted his chin proudly. “I believe it is one of my many strengths.” 

  
“A strength that’s going to get you killed one day.” Athos pointed out.

  
“But what a way to go.” Aramis returned lightening quick.   

  
“You said: was” D’Artagnan cut in, before the three could get sidetracked in banter. “He died?” 

  
That quickly stole the grin from Aramis face, sobering the table. Around them, the tavern continued to whirl with energy and good cheer; a sudden and stark contrast to their little corner. 

  
“Yes," Aramis answered simply. “When I was nine, my little village was ransacked by roaming bandits. It had been a small hamlet and we had no need for warriors or soldiers.” Aramis stopped and took a quick drink, his normally expressive face, hard. “So when the bandits came we were helpless, like lambs to a slaughter. My father tried, but while he could forge a blade, he had no talent for wielding one. By the time they had finished pilfering no one had been left alive.” 

  
The table was silent. Porthos reached across and soundlessly clasped a warm, comforting hand on Aramis’s arm and gave a squeeze. While all at the table knew loss all too intimately, only Porthos could empathize loosing your entire world so young. Aramis nodded his head in thanks.   

  
D’Artagnan ran a hand through his hair, instantly regretting asking the initial question. He hated that he had turned what was to be a night of celebration into a more morose affair.

  
“Don’t worry my friend.” Aramis comforted, catching the young man’s guilty look. “It happened long ago, in a place very far from here. These memories have long stopped being able to hurt me.” 

  
“How did you survive?” Athos inquired quietly, breaking the tenuous silence.  

  
Aramis smiled joylessly. “Luckily at the time I was small for my age. For my protection, my father locked me in a cupboard. It took me two days to break myself out. By that time, the bandits had moved on.”     

  
It was rare for all three men at the table to be at loss for words. But what could one say to a friend when told a tale such as that? Any words would have been seemed trite and inadequate. 

  
A sudden shout of outrage, and breaking of glass shattered the grave atmosphere. Without warning a body flew onto the top of the wooden table, sending it crashing to the ground. Aramis jumped back instinctively but was not fast enough. He looked down at his stained tunic and glanced upwards at Porthos, who too was now dripping with his own drink. Across the bar, two drunkards began to wrestle on the floor, a crowd forming around them, egging and cheering them on. Feeling a sudden rush of relief at the timely interruption, Aramis got up and grabbed his hat from the back of his chair. Gracefully putting on his hat, he nodded at his companions. 

  
“If you will excuse me gentleman, I am afraid that I have some business to take care of. Porthos, if you’d care to join me?” 

  
Porthos grinned maliciously, and cracked his knuckles. “It would be my pleasure.” With a roar, the dark haired musketeer turned and jumped into the growing fray. 

  
Athos, who had miraculously emerged unscathed, nodded at Aramis in understanding, giving the younger man an all too knowing look. “Just don’t kill anyone, or get killed. And for the love of god, do not get arrested.” 

  
Aramis grinned and nodded. “But of course.” He looked sideways to the youngest member of the group. “Tell me D’Artagnan, have you ever been in a bar fight?” 

  
D’Artagnan grinned, glad to see his friend in better spirits. “I’m not that young you know. I’ve won my share of fights.” He boasted as he stood up. 

  
In the background, a crash resonated through the room, quickly followed by the sound of Porthos’s distinctive battle cry. Aramis peeked quickly behind him and then looked back at D’Artagnan with an impish grin. “Glad to hear it. Time then to show off your prowess.” He grabbed the young man’s arm and without warning shoved him into the fray. 

  
“Have fun.” Athos simply said, making no move to get up from his chair and follow the younger men. Aramis sometimes wondered what Athos had been like as a young man, before the mysterious incident that caused him to drink.

  
“I told you, everyday should be a celebration Athos!” Aramis tipped his hat slightly, and then bounded after his friends. Without wasting a second, he gleefully punched the first person he met very hard in the face. 

 

  
*~*

 

  
    The glaring early light of the next morning came much too quickly for the three musketeers and their recruit. Athos, used to the head pounding headache that came from the indulgence of too much wine, could not help but give a tiny smirk at the sight of the young D’Artagnan. The young man, despite his confidence last night, had not escaped the fray unscathed. He now sported a black, swollen eye and, if his squinted eyes were any indication, a pummelling headache of his own. Porthos sat at the barrack's table and had his head hidden, buried in his arms, silent except for the occasional groan of pain. Aramis on the other hand, looked tired but cheerful as he leaned against the banister eating an apple, apparently no worse for wear despite his role in instigating the entire affair.  

  
“How are you so cheerful, you bastard?” Porthos groaned into his arms, his voice muffled. 

  
Athos wondered the same thing. He had watched the younger man drink more then his fair share last night, and knew Aramis had drunk much more then his usual wont. Yet, the only indication of last night’s events were the faint bags under his eyes and his slightly more ruffled appearance. Unlike the other three, Aramis sported no injuries from the fight and did not seemed to be suffering a headache. 

  
Aramis shrugged and cheerfully took another bite of his apple. “Just lucky I guess.”  

  
D’Artagnan glared at the older musketeer resentfully through one eye. “I blame you. This,” He gestured wildly to his swollen eye and bruised face. “Is your fault.” He accused.  

  
“Now D’Artagnan, it hardly my fault you didn’t duck.” 

  
“He was aiming for you!” D’Artagnan hissed back. 

  
Aramis nodded. “Yes, and I ducked. Let that be another lesson to you. Always be aware of your surroundings.” He added sagely. 

  
D’Artagnan looked to Athos and Porthos imploringly. Athos merely shrugged in reply. “You should have ducked.” 

  
Porthos only groaned. 

  
D’Artagnan threw up his hands in disgust and then immediately winced as his headache protested viciously. “Constance would not speak to me this morning… again!” He stopped and continued at a lower volume. “She told me that she wouldn’t be seen with a common hooligan and not to talk to her until this” he gestured wildly at his face again “was healed.”  

  
“And if you were a special hooligan?” Athos asked vaguely as he checked over his gloves. 

  
D’Artagnan glared. 

   
Aramis shrugged. “You can hardly blame me for your trouble with women.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, I do believe last night was a success. D’Artagnan learned another useful lesson, Porthos got to hit more then one person and I do think even Athos grinned at least once.” 

  
“And you?” Athos inquired idly, wondering if Aramis would mention the night’s earlier conversation. 

  
Aramis’s behaviour this morning was puzzling. He gave no indication that he even remembered that he had shared a small, but painful piece of his history. His story had been unexpected to say the least. Athos had first been surprised that his fellow musketeer had taken D’Artagnan’s question seriously and decided to shared at all; then doubly stunned when he had revealed such a bloody past. Looking at the grinning soldier now, Athos would never guess that his friend had endured such heart ache, for Aramis has always been a man quick to smile, laugh and love. So different from his own stern facade.      

  
“I” Aramis grinned in pleasure as he paused for dramatic affect. “Brought home the beautiful and supple Madame Bargeron and had quite a lovely morning already.” He added impishly. “And that is all I can say on the matter, as a gentlemen does not kiss and tell.”  

  
Athos rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. Just tell me she wasn’t married.” 

  
“She wasn’t married.” Aramis responded promptly. 

  
“Why am I not reassured?” Athos remarked sarcastically back. 

  
Porthos groaned. “Just shut up both of you and for gods sake stop eating around me Aramis!” 

  
“You know” Aramis started, peering curiously down at his friend. “For someone who drinks as much as you, you sure have a weak constitution the next day.” He took another bite of his apple. “You might want to work on that.” 

  
“Shut up Aramis!” D’Artagnan and Porthos chorused and then simultaneously winced. 

  
Aramis just cheerfully took another bite of his apple.  

  
Before Porthos could get up and cheerfully strangle his friend, Captain Treville bellowed up from the balcony, his tone distinctively unamused. “You four, in my office, now!” 

  
The four soldiers jumped to attention and exchanged uneasy looks. “He sounds happy.” Porthos remarked sarcastically. 

  
“I think he always sounds like that.” Aramis responded. 

  
Athos looked over at the two other musketeers. “You didn’t duel anymore Red Guards did you?”  He asked accusingly as he made his way up the stairs. He wouldn’t find it too shocking if the answer was yes. His comrades were always quick to defend the honour of the Musketeers, even more so when sufficiently drunk. Though he hoped that they would have exercised a little restraint. Porthos had only been exonerated of murder yesterday. Getting arrested two days in a row was pushing it, even for them. 

  
“No” Porthos grunted out as he rose from the table. “There were no Red Guard at the tavern last night. I was drunk, but not that drunk.” 

  
“Not that I can recall; no.” Aramis agreed. “I do hope it’s not about the fight last night. It did get pretty rowdy.” He pondered absentmindedly. 

  
His three friends stopped, and glared. “I’m blaming you.” Porthos threatened as he journeyed upstairs.  

  
“Agreed.” Athos nodded. 

  
“I hardly think this is all my fault.” Aramis protested. “It’s not like I held my gun to…”   

  
“Quit dawdling!” Captain Treville’s voice boomed, interrupting Aramis’s fervent declarations of innocence, and sending the four swordsmen quicker up the stairs. 

  
D’Artagnan glowered at Aramis. “If you get me in trouble, I will take it very personally.” He threatened before moving to follow Athos and Porthos upstairs. 

  
“You need to think of a new threat.” Aramis called back, completely unruffled as he chucked his now finished apple core over his shoulder and bounded quickly after his friends.  

 

  
*~*

 

  
The four stood in front of their captain’s desk in attention, hat’s off, eyes respectively forward and stance at the ready. Captain Treville studied his three best musketeers and his most promising recruit silently, taking in the various black eyes, pained expressions and ragged appearances. He paid particular attention to Porthos, who kept his own eyes firmly ahead. It was not everyday a man was accused and exonerated of murder, though it seemed to be becoming an annoying habit for this particular troop. But discounting the man’s obvious hung over appearance; to Treville’s eye the burly swordsman seemed no worse for wear from his most recent misadventure. Good. 

  
D’Artagnan began to speak, but Treville threw up his hand, interrupting the nervous boy. “I don’t want to know.” Treville gestured to the soldiers appearances. “I have enough troubles without actively looking for more. Just tell me this, will I be receiving an angrily worded missive from the Cardinal or the captain of the Red Guard?” 

  
“You will not.” Athos answered confidently. He gave away no indication that the thought had passed by his own mind only moments before.  

  
“Good.” Satisfied, Captain Treville leaned forward. “On to His Majesty’s business then.” He handed Athos a handful of papers, gesturing the man to hand them out. “For the last three months these symbols have been spotted on the side of buildings all across Paris and even in the North around Normandy.” 

  
Athos grabbed the parchments blindly, eyes not leaving his captain. “You would send us after vandals?” He inquired, his soft, rolling timbre betraying his displeasure. “Is there not a better use of our skills?” 

  
“Or are we really being punished?” Aramis chimed in brightly, passing the papers on to D’Artagnan and Porthos. 

  
“You would not find my punishments so pleasant.” Treville promised darkly in response. “Pay attention! Do you recognize the symbols?” 

  
All four men studied the two drawings. One was a simple red cross, the intersecting lines appearing equal, flaring out slightly at the ends. The other depicted a crudely drawn black dragon with two horns and an outstretched wing, placed on the face of a shield. Underneath both symbols the inscription ‘in hoc signo vines’ was written. 

  
“The first is the symbol of the Templar Knights.” Athos observed after a moment. “But they were disbanded and charged with treason to the crown centuries ago.” He pointed out.

  
“The Templar Knights?” Porthos questioned, having never heard the name. 

  
Captain Treville nodded, “Three hundred years ago, the Ordre du Temple was a group of learned warrior, knights of the Catholic church, soldiers of The Crusades. They were found guilty of betraying the Church, of worshiping the devil and the Order was dissolved by the Pope. King Philip IV had members of the organization arrested, put on trial and executed. Since then, France has seen no sign of the Knights.” He tapped the paper on his desk. “until now.” 

  
Athos scoffed. “It had nothing to do with God. That was just the most convenient excuse. They were simply too wealthy, too powerful and too dangerous to the crown.” 

  
Aramis nodded in agreement. “It is said that the charges were trumped, and that many good men were burnt at the stake.”  

  
D’Artagnan shuttered; what a horrible way to die.  

  
“Enough,” Captain Treville cut in brusquely. “I did not call you here to discuss and debate actions taken over three centuries ago.” He gestured to the map on his desk. “What worries both the Cardinal and I is they're increasing activity across France, now, today.” 

  
D’Artagnan shook his head. “I don’t understand. Who cares about a bunch of old, dusty knights?” 

  
Treville shook his head. “The Cardinal does, and I agree with him. The Order was once one of the most powerful, widespread organizations in Europe until their fall from grace. It is believed that some of their members fled to Spain to escape the inquisition.”

  
“And your worried they are back for retribution against France, with the backing of Spain?” Athos guessed, his eyes searching. 

  
“Even after all this time?” D’Artagnan argued. “Surely enough time has past to lay that particular grievance to bed.” 

  
“For some, there are certain offences that do not fade or weaken in time.” Aramis chided gravely. “I have heard of grudges that can last generations, why not centuries?”

  
Treville nodded. “That is so. But in truth, I don’t know why they are back. And that’s what worries me.” 

  
All four men nodded in understanding. Any soldier worth his salt knew that a known threat was always preferable then the one hidden in the shadows. Back alley stabbings and murders were the world of the Cardinal, not the Musketeers. A death on the battlefield was honourable, a death from behind a disgrace.  

  
“What the hell does ‘in hoc signo vines’ mean.” Porthos spoke up, awkwardly sounding out the foreign words. Growing up in the Court of Miracles, a notorious safe haven for thieves, beggars and whores, did not provide Porthos much opportunity for literacy. He was proud to have taught himself how to read and write, but that was just the most basic French; he knew he was no learned gentleman. 

  
“In hoc signo vines” Athos rattled off properly. “It is latin for: in this sign thou shall conquer.” It was in moments like this where Athos noble heritage was suddenly all to clear. 

  
“Well, that sounds properly menacing.” Aramis remarked. 

  
“And, according to the Cardinal’s records, it is a common saying of the Templar Knights.” Treville added. “It is the other symbol that is more puzzling, however. It could be a match to any number of crests found in the royal archives and we do not know enough to narrow it down.”  

  
At that Athos looked up. “Do you believe one of the houses if planning a coup?” 

  
Treville shrugged. “As of now, we do not know what to believe. It could simply be a couple of vandals, or signs of an insurgency. We dare not take any chances. In that at least the Cardinal and I are in agreement.”  

  
“Trouble from the Red Guard?” Porthos asked with a raised eyebrow and a grin.  

  
Treville shook his head. “you need not worry about that. Dealing with the Cardinal is my cross to bear. For now, I want your energies focused on this.” Treville pointed to the mysterious symbols. 

  
“Hmmm” Aramis muttered, studying the crudely drawn dragon intently. There was something familiar about the dragon, something that touched just the edges of his memory. It was a frustrating feeling, knowing that the answer was there, darting just out of reach. He shook his head in resignation. If he was meant to remember this particular mystery, he would eventually. 

  
“Aramis?” D’Artagnan questioned quietly.   

  
The man looked up. “It is nothing.” He shrugged. “There is just something familiar about it, but I cannot place it.” 

  
“Well, neither can we. So I need you four to ride out to Les Andley’s and have a look around the ruins of Chateau Gaillard, where these symbols were first discovered.” Treville ordered. He handed Athos an envelope. “In here is the name and address of the man that can lead you to the castle, and the symbols.” 

  
“And what exactly are we looking for?” Athos asked coolly as he turned the letter over in his hands. 

  
“Any sign of a conspiracy against the King.” Treville commanded. “As always, your duty is to protect the King” 

  
“Even against century old grievances?”

  
“Even then.” He shot the three musketeers a look. “Remember, this is a fact finding mission only. If you are to find any evidence of wrong doing, you are to report back to me first. If one of the main houses is conspiring against the King, we cannot afford to make any mistakes.”  

  
“As my Captain commands.” Athos bowed his head, and gestured the other three towards the door. “We will leave at once.” 

  
“Oh and D’Artagnan?” Captain Treville called just as his office door was closing. D’Artagnan stopped. “Next time, you might want to duck.” The young swordsman blushed as the captain chuckled, and without a word he nodded and quickly left the office to catch up with his friends, promising himself that Aramis would receive retribution.

 

_tbc._


End file.
